Writing About Robin Williams, in Death and Life

One of the first times I wrote about Robin Williams for The New York Times, I interviewed him for a feature about “World’s Greatest Dad,” a dark comedy he starred in for his friend, the writer-director Bobcat Goldthwait. A couple of months later, I was on the road with Mr. Williams to write a feature about his new comedy tour, undertaken after he’d been to rehab for alcoholism, gotten divorced from his second wife and had lifesaving heart surgery. A few years later, we spoke for a profile I wrote about his friend Billy Crystal. A year after that, I wrote his obituary.

When I decided to write a biography, “Robin,” about Mr. Williams’s extraordinary life and career, I assumed I had a solid foundation. I have nearly 20 years’ experience as a culture reporter (10 of them as a Times employee). I had my past interviews with him, conversations in which he’d been warm, thoughtful and relentlessly candid about his life. I had spoken and worked with many people who knew him intimately: dear friends; his older son, Zak; his publicists and management.

I had a little confidence and a lot of anxiety, and both served me well on a project that took nearly four years to complete.

For the first year and change, I focused entirely on reporting. Mr. Williams’s family was locked in a legal dispute over his estate, so I spoke to people on the periphery: friends, former classmates and teachers, past colleagues who had worked with Mr. Williams long enough ago that, while they still mourned his loss, they were not too devastated to speak about him.

With my wife and our then 7-month-old son, I went to Boston University, where Mr. Williams had archived many personal artifacts, including years’ worth of correspondence and dozens of his handwritten, annotated scripts for just about every movie and TV show he’d worked on.

The night I returned home from Boston, Mr. Williams’s family resolved its legal conflict. Within months I was on my way to San Francisco to interview Zak Williams, who shared vital details about his father’s life and ancestry and who helped introduce me to other relatives.

Even as I felt I was gaining some mastery of my material, I was engaged in delicate work. I reached out to people who were still pained by Mr. Williams’s suicide and who were dismayed by the idea that anyone might try to tell his story. I had to learn to accept that some people would never be comfortable sharing even their fond memories of Mr. Williams. That was their right.

I also caught a few lucky breaks. One important interview subject — I’ll politely decline to say who — called me in anger, to tell me all the reasons this person didn’t want to participate in the book; after a few minutes of calm conversation and explanation, we were talking on the record.

Another supremely important interview came together more than a year and a half into my writing process, after my manuscript was edited and had just been typeset. (Believe me, I’m not complaining.)

I was very grateful to have spoken with Garry Marshall, a creator of “Happy Days” and “Mork & Mindy,” before he died in 2016 (he informed me that TV writers always have their babies in December, because they go on vacation in April); and with the irascible Lillian Ross, a journalist who knew Williams well, before her death in 2017.

I had all the transcripts from my past conversations with Mr. Williams to draw from — his forthright reflections on his alcohol abuse and his hilariously frank description of his impetuous “Popeye” producer, Robert Evans. (The Times could never publish it — but it’s on page 142 of the book.) And there were the numerous other interviews Mr. Williams had given in his lifetime.

But beyond that, as ample as it might seem, no other Robin Williams material would ever exist. If a question had not been posed to him before, it could never be answered now. The more I came to understand about him, the more I kicked myself for not making better use of the time I had with him. Who was the mystery girlfriend for whom he’d quit Juilliard and moved back to San Francisco? What could it have felt like to have divorced his second wife, Marsha, who had kept his life organized for more than 20 years and helped him find films like “Mrs. Doubtfire”? What was his favorite role he’d ever played? What made him happy?

And then I would realize how small and selfish I was being in these moments — how petty my own disappointments were when measured against the sadness of the family members and loved ones who had truly known him and suffered his loss — and I would get back to writing.